Pumping Irony

It’s a muggy day for a bicycle commute, even one that lasts only 15 minutes, and this morning it’s made more challenging by the soreness in my left shoulder. I must have strained a muscle there while lifting last night. In fact, my upper body is pretty sore all over, which I didn’t expect after what I thought was a relatively brisk and effective 60-minute workout.

I’ve been trying to strengthen those shoulder muscles ever since I started this new regimen. The right one was especially problematic three or four years ago, when I think I messed up my rotator cuff somehow. I was at my in-laws house and one of my nephews invited me outside to throw the football around. But when I tried to launch a pass, I had no strength in my shoulder at all. The more I tried, the worse it got.

Since then, I’ve been to a massage therapist, who worked me over pretty good once a week for two or three months. I think that helped, but mostly I just rested the shoulder and allowed it to heal. I haven’t had any trouble with either of them until this morning, and I’m pretty sure I just strained the muscle a little.

Anyway, I did the interval thing again last night — six 30-second bursts of speed followed by a minute of rest — during my 20 minutes on the bike. It feels pretty good (until that sixth interval) and it will give me something to measure my progress against down the road. Maybe I can do seven next time? No one cares if I sweat at the gym.

I’m not going to pretend it hasn’t been awhile since I’ve posted (these things are dated, after all), but real work comes first and I’ve been catching up after a week’s vacation. (Yeah, I could’ve posted while on vacation . . . whatever.) It doesn’t mean, however, that I’ve been slacking off in the workout department.

On Friday, for instance, I did a little interval-type deal on the stationary bike: going as hard as I can (about 115 RPM) for 30 seconds, followed by a 60-second cool-down (about 50 RPM). I did this, I guess, about four or five times and really blew up my heart rate (about 147). I’ve read about this approach for some time now, but never really bought into it, until now. The deal is that you’re supposed to be able to get a whole lot of cardio benefit in a small amount of time. They weren’t kidding, either: After less than 15 minutes on the bike, I was pretty much exhausted.

I’m not generally in a hurry about most things, and I can’t say I’m anxious to spend less time at the gym or to zip through my cardio in order to start lifting or head home to start drinking Grain Belt a little earlier than usual. But the whole interval approach does have its benefits. It’s supposed to help burn off belly fat pretty effectively (not that I need to do that, specifically. . .), plus it’s great for boosting metabolism in general.

All I know is that I worked up a bucket of sweat in no time and my heart was thumping in a way that reminded me of junior high cross-country (which is not a particularly fond memory). Still, I’m thinking that, all in all, this can’t be a bad thing so long as I’m still vertical, so I’m going to give it another shot tonight after work.

My left knee is still giving me some trouble periodically, which is why I’m staying on the bike rather than the treadmill these days. (Actually, I did some treadmill work a week or so ago, but unless I’m running at about 6 mph, a pace I can maintain for only a short while, I just don’t get lathered up that much.) The elliptical thingy is thrilling and all, with those poles threatening at any moment to poke out an eye, but it just doesn’t do it for me.

Everything I read tells me I should vary my routine or risk drifting into some dreaded ennui, but after more than 18 months of doing this stuff, I’m still pretty OK with it. It’s not that I lie awake at night formulating new routines, or anything, but it’s become part of my weekly routine and I kind of miss it when something prevents me from getting down there. I do need to add some kind of stretching activity, though. I’m getting stronger, but I feel like I might actually be less flexible than I was when I started doing all this.

So, I’m thinking about taking a yoga or Pilates class. My Lovely Wife mentioned her interest in doing a beginning yoga thing, so maybe we could do it together. That way, I’d have someone to remind me that, yes, it’s time to go to class and, no, you can’t stay home and drink beer. (Sigh.)

But it’s back on the bike tonight for 15 minutes of all-out cranking, followed by some ab work (sigh) and some lifting. Then home for a nice cold one.

Russert: No guarantees 

I was back in the gym last night for a pretty rigorous, fast-paced workout: 10 miles on the bike (average heart rate of 114) and a good half-hour of upper body and (a little) ab work on the machines. Worked up a pretty good sweat. Felt pretty good about myself.

Then, this morning, I stumbled across a piece in The New York Times that was trying to explain the sudden heart attack that killed NBC political guru Tim Russert, a guy who had apparently shown no symptoms of heart disease and then simply keeled over and died at his desk.

As Denise Grady explains, Russert’s death has raised serious questions about the efficacy of heart disease treatment options. The 58-year-old Russert was taking drugs to lower his blood pressure and cholesterol, rode an exercise bike regularly, had annual stress tests and was doing his best to lose weight. All these behaviors seemed to be working; according to his doctor, Russert had about a 5 percent chance of dying of a heart attack in the next 10 years.

So much for those odds….

Now, of course, anyone who’s been seeing their doctor regularly and who’s been doing what they think they should be doing to prevent cardiac arrest is going to start wondering whether they’re just wasting their time and ought to just get back to eating donuts and fried chicken like they used to do because they like donuts and fried chicken a lot more than they like to exercise. I mean, a lot of good all that stuff did Tim Russert, right?

Doctors like to point out in cases like this that medicine is not an exact science; you can do everything your doctor tells you to do to stay healthy and you’re still going to die at some point — maybe tomorrow, even if you’ve got important stuff to do. There are no guarantees.

Every one of my father’s siblings suffered a heart attack at some point in their lives. Most of them died. A couple of them, like my dad, survived the heart attack and succumbed later to cancer. So, I’m pretty well-versed in this whole heart disease thing. And even though none of my siblings have keeled over from myocardial infarction yet, we’re not taking anything for granted. We’ve all given up smoking (except my little brother, who’s just stubborn) and everybody seems to be getting at least a little exercise from time to time and we all know a lot more about healthy eating than my dad did back in the ’50s.

A friend of mine likes to point out that you can eat well, get plenty of exercise, live a low-stress lifestyle … and then get hit by a bus while crossing the street to get to your yoga class. And she’s right. There are no guarantees. Maybe Russert would’ve died five years ago if he hadn’t started exercising and taking drugs to lower his blood pressure, etc. Or maybe not. My grandfather lived to be 93 and he smoked a cigar everyday and liked to drink whiskey and favored rocking chairs over exercise bikes.

So, you never know.

I’m about a year younger than Russert was at his death, and I’m doing everything I can to keep myself vertical for the long haul. But, it’s not really about avoiding the Grim Reaper, who we all know lurks around every corner and can maybe pluck us out of this earthly realm pretty much whenever he chooses (who really knows?). It’s about feeling good right here, right now.

After all, that’s all we’ve got, isn’t it?

I’ve been comparing notes recently with Hodding Carter, the 45-year-old writer whose new book, Off the Deep End, chronicles his manic pursuit of a spot on the 2008 U.S. Olympic swimming team. Carter, who 20 years earlier won Division III All-America honors for his alma mater, Kenyon College, uses his pursuit of Olympic glory as a vehicle to escape a nasty mid-life crisis.

It’s an insightful and often hilarious read, and it contains some lessons for geezers who turn to exercise as a way to relive/revive their former athletic prowess. Primary among these lessons would be the following:

• Don’t blow up your marriage while you’re trying to rebuild your body/self-esteem. Carter has no sense of balance — he’s all about full-on training and he treats his wife and three kids like they’re obstacles between himself and his fitness goals. This is not a good idea.

• Don’t live in the past. In his obsessive drive to cut his time in the 50 freestyle by two seconds, he actually goes back to Kenyon and lives in the dorm and trains with his old coach. Not surprisingly, he finds he doesn’t fit in very well.

• Don’t assume that just because you’re trying harder, your performance will improve. On multiple occasions in his quest, Carter clearly is overtraining — and it shows. In one classic anecdote, he arrives at a regional masters swimming meet feeling better than he’s felt in years, and finishes last to a bunch of guys even older then he is.

The good news is that Carter eventually gets it — not the spot on the Olympic team (the trials are looming as the book ends), but the real reason why he began his quest. At one point, he’s offered the job of coaching young swimmers at his local YMCA. He takes the gig because he figures it will give him more pool time (and he really needs the money), then gradually realizes that maybe he’s found a niche that allows him to embrace swimming in his middle years.

All three of his kids are swimmers suddenly under his clumsy wing, but he finds that their interest in the sport mirrors his own. And maybe that’s enough. At the state meet, he writes how his youngest, Eliza, beams after swimming her fastest time. “[It] . . . made me realize the weekend wasn’t only about the drudgery and unending chaos. I’d been enjoying the days’ races but Eliza’s happiness made everything complete. I felt blessed to have three of my own kids deriving joy from the same sport that had been, and still was, such a large part of my life.”

It’s a sweet moment in an often cynical chronicle, and it reminds me that my own fitness quest could actually use a goal or two (I know, I know. . . You told me so.), but I refuse to pretend that I’m going to suddenly get back out on the asphalt and go one-on-one with some twentysomething who would break my ankles with his first killer crossover. I’d love to be able to play hoops again, but I have no interest in reconstructive surgery.

What Carter learned throughout his quest, and I what I ought to someday admit, is that a little guidance isn’t a bad thing. He sought out coaches and like-minded athletes; it probably wouldn’t hurt me to do the same.

I’ve been riding my bike into work recently, but today, which promises thundershowers after work, I decided to hoof it. My lovely wife will drive me home after the gym if the forecast holds true.

I had almost forgotten how delightful it is to walk. Indeed, a couple of blocks into my trek, I realized that I’d almost forgotten how to walk. My gait was uneven and I actually felt a bit off-balance as I navigated the sidewalk and curbs on my way to the park. I was trying to slow down and enjoy the sights and sounds of the morning, but it seemed like my legs wanted to move at a faster pace than my eyes and ears. Anyway, by the time I crossed Hiawatha Avenue and entered the park, I had settled into a pleasing rhythm. The falls loomed near, and I was curious to see how high the creek would be after all the rain of recent days.

Normally, I can hear the falls by the time I enter the park — maybe 50 yards away — but today the rushing water was drowned out by some ear-splitting mechanical noise coming from somewhere beyond the creek. So, my moment of quiet contemplation at the falls (at the spot where President Lyndon Johnson stood in 1964; his shoe prints are in the cement — really) became more of a micro-moment.

Until I realized that my calves were tightening up. This is the thing that always kills me when I try to run (well, that and my recalcitrant left knee), and I try to remedy it by stretching it out. So, there I am: standing in LBJ’s footprints overlooking majestic Minnehaha Falls, 100 decibels of industrial noise destroying my already poor hearing, leaning into the rock wall to stretch my calves.

I’m never sure how to stretch most parts of my aging body, but I generally am able to loosen my calf muscles with very little effort. Apparently, they get tight because of micro-tears in the muscle, which inhibits blood flow.

Anyway, they feel fine by the time I leave LBJ’s little square of concrete, though my ears are still ringing from whatever machine was making all that racket. Don’t these people have any respect for the urban wilderness experience???

(Wilderness addendum: I saw two caterpillars on the asphalt path in the park and a Cooper’s Hawk soaring over the river, a perfect blend of the pedestrian and the glorious.)

I’m getting more accustomed to the new machines at the gym, so I can’t use that as an excuse for blowing off my workouts until recently (Monday). I did play 18 holes of completely humiliating golf last week, and I’ve been on my bicycle some, but I have to say I’m kind of out of my preferred routine.

I hope to be back among the sweaty machines (sweating machines?) tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve been a bit vexed about my seeming inability to quickly ramp up my heart rate on these machines. The other day, I climbed on the Elliptical Death Machine and dialed up the “interval” workout. So, I was shuffling uphill at a pretty good clip. Five minutes passed, and my heart rate was still mired in the 80s. Ten minutes passed, and I was barely hitting triple digits. I had to get a good 20 minutes into my routine before I was in the neighborhood of 120-130, which is where I think I’m supposed to be in order to get the most benefit from all this flailing around.

I’m thinking that it’s a good thing that I’m not out of breath right away, but I’m not sure, so I check in with SW, my fitness guru, who says that, indeed, if it takes awhile to get to that sweet spot, it’s a sign that I’m in pretty good shape. Plus, he adds, it’s a good idea to take my time ramping up the old ticker, because my body and heart need to adjust to the work they’re being called upon to do.

The real value of all this heart-rate stuff, says Fernando Pages Ruiz in this 2005 piece in Experience Life, is to use it to guide you through your workouts and on to your specific fitness goals. If I was trying to lose weight, for instance, (ha ha…) I’d exercise in the range of my aerobic threshold (114 to 124). Above that point, Ruiz explains, my body would stop burning fat and start burning carbs.

I’m really not trying to lose weight (I do seem to be holding steady about 162; maybe I could stand to get a bit leaner. . .), but I am trying to gain muscle mass. (That’s another story.) So, it appears I need to be a little more strategic.

Of course, that would mean I’d have to have some goals.

My motto: Make friends with new machines.

Well, I didn’t get to the gym on Wednesday (worked too late — not enough time for a good workout. . . . so, sue me! Geeze.), but I managed to get downstairs last night for a little sweat-a-thon. I did 25+ minutes on the treadmill while watching CNN talking heads lip-synch something about the Obama-Clinton race, which for some reason prompted me to hit the “incline” button a few times. And, about 15 minutes into my session, I inexplicably broke into a run. Was this a sympathetic response to Hilary’s uphill battle for the nomination? Anyway, my heart rate was creeping into the mid-140s (coronary territory???) and I was sucking wind and Wolf Blitzer was segueing into a story about John McCain’s medical records (71 is old?), all of which kind of took the wind out of my sails. Defeated, I slowed to a walk, pondering my own mortality and the civic value of soundless TV news, before switching off my virtual runway and moving on to better things.

Last week sometime, a dizzying array of new resistance machines arrived at the club, so after nearly eight months of learning how to use the old machinery without hurting myself, I’m suddenly back at square one. For most people, this does not pose much of a problem. The hulking, tattooed denizens of the weight room seem to instinctively know which machines do what to their impossibly buff bodies; they simply bend the machines to their iron will. Other, less imposing specimens seek out a nearby helpful personal trainer and simply ask their advice.

I, on the other hand, wander aimlessly amid the shiny white monuments, squinting at the inscrutable hieroglyphs designed to explain the machine’s proposed relationship with the user’s body. It’s as if I’d stumbled upon a trade show for tool-and-die machines or the latest in Romanian commercial bakery appliances.

No, I do not ask for directions.

Instead, I climb on the most familiar-looking pieces of machinery and crank away, marveling at how smooth and silent the transaction feels. Poundage that felt oppressive on the old machines I can hoist almost effortlessly. I did have pasta for lunch (see “Superfood?”), but that can’t entirely explain how easy this feels tonight. I pile on an extra 10, even 20 lbs. more than I’m accustomed to, and, 10 reps later, it’s: Whoa! I’m da man!

It momentarily occurs to me that different resistance machinery could register different results, but I quickly dismiss that thought and consider, just for the briefest instant, venturing over into the free-weights area, where the real men and their tattoos lurk. I even think, for the tiniest of nanoseconds, that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be totally out of line for a guy my age to get a tattoo. (Why should my daughter be the only one in the family with one?)

But, just as suddenly, the thought fades, and I’m back on the ab cruncher thingy, wondering about this new pain in my lower back. Way across the room, Obama’s on CNN again.

Skinny guy, I’m thinking. Probably no tattoos. Someday, maybe, the most powerful man in the world. Hmmm. . . .

Not my hammock, not my house — but a guy can dream, can’t he?

I skipped the gym last night and stayed home from work today in hopes of thwarting a cold bug that’s had me sniffling and sneezing — though not yet completely miserable — for a couple of days. And, while there’s ample evidence to indicate that exercise can help cure the common cold, older guys like myself like to rest rather than recreate when visited by our most familiar virus.

Former Minnesota Vikings defensive end Jim Marshall said it best years ago, when he explained why he liked to report late to training camp: “There’s only so much tread on the tire.” (Of course, this was a guy who made history by running the wrong way with a fumble during a 1964 game against the San Francisco 49ers, so . . . .)

More scholarly sources, however, suggest that Marshall may be right in pacing himself — especially if you’re fighting a cold. Dr. David Nieman, a professor at Appalachian State University, says moderate exercise may boost your immune system, but going too hard when you’re sick could slow your recovery. That’s because the body produces more cortisol and adrenaline during intense workouts, and these hormones tend to suppress your immune system for up to 72 hours after the session.

Not that I need any excuse to take a nap today.

The good news is that this fitness regimen I’m on — as erratic as it sometimes is — should actually keep the cold and flu viruses at bay. Forty minutes of moderate exercise a day (which I’m just going to assume includes walking to work) helps the body produce more macrophages, cells that destroy bacteria (the bad kind, I’m assuming), which, in turn, leads to a stronger immune system.

So, I’m hoping to be back at the gym tomorrow diligently producing macrophages and toning up my newly buff immunity.

Domestic chores demand a strong body.

My Friday workout felt hasty and ill-conceived, sort of a circuit-training approach without the “training” part, as I wandered from treadmill to ab-cruncher to lat pull-down to chest press, etc., etc. — all crammed into about 60 minutes of low-energy grunting (I really need 90 minutes to do this right). Part of the problem was that I was still a little sore from Wednesday’s high-energy workout, and I didn’t want to hurt myself.

I have a meeting tonight, so I think it’s going to be a Tuesday-Thursday schedule this week, which suits me just fine.

I did walk to work this morning, so I managed to get 35 minutes of low-impact, bone-strengthening cardio into my day. This on the heels of a “non-workout” weekend that included a 90-minute hike through the Mississippi River gorge with a couple dozen amateur geologists (including my lovely wife), my annual mid-May trip to the cursing driving range (I have the blisters to prove it), the first lawn-mowing of the spring (long grass and a reel mower make for good cardio and resistance training), and a heroic wrestling match with a garden hose and an extension ladder, during which I managed to clean out my gutters and downspouts without falling to my death (R.I.P. Max McGee).

My lovely wife, by the way, trumped all of this activity on Mother’s day by climbing on her bicycle and pedaling 13.5 miles into a nasty north wind to visit her mother in Roseville — and then she rode all the way back home. That’s 27 miles, I reminded myself as I sipped a glass of cabernet and perused the latest issue of Utne Reader over lunch. (I did cook dinner, by the way. And washed the dishes.)

This all had me reconsidering my earlier assertion about having no fitness goals. In fact, the best reason for hitting the gym two or three times a week is because I want to be able to haul out the extension ladder every spring to clean out the gutters and I want to be able to mow the lawn and ride my bicycle and carry wet laundry out to the line in the summer and chase grandchildren around the yard (though I’m in no hurry for that. . . really, kids. . . . take your time). This is called functional fitness, a concept designed to enhance the ability of geezers like myself to remain upright and reasonably useful in our old age.

Of course, if I really want to pursue this approach, I’m probably going to have to be more strategic about my gym workout. As Gina Shaw points out in this WebMD piece, just cranking away on some resistance machine doesn’t actually work your body in a way that will be particularly helpful to your long-term functionality. In my case, all the lifting I’ve been doing has been working isolated muscle groups, which might make me feel stronger (and look less flabby), but it does little to strengthen the integrated muscle groups that we use to lift or reach or bend or squat during the course of our normal day.

At some level, I’m happy to learn of this approach, even though it will ultimately force me to ask a personal trainer about a new regimen, which to me is akin to pulling over at a gas station when I’m hopelessly lost and asking directions. It’s just not something guys like me do.

This is how it feels sometimes. Really.

I rode my bicycle to work this morning, even though I chose to wear the inexplicable sneaker-khakis combo (see “If the Shoe Fits” below) previously designed for walking. So, that means I’m destined for the dreaded treadmill tonight at the gym. Running Walking builds bone density, after all, and if I don’t hoof it to work, I try to do it on the moving rubber mat.

Except on Wednesday, when I bicycled to work and  then was mysteriously attracted to the stationary bike downstairs, where I did a sort of interval thing (pedaling at about 80 RPMs for a couple of minutes and then cranking it up to about 110 RPMs for a minute or so), which pumped my heart rate up into the high 130s. This pretty much knocked me out after about 20 minutes, but it made me think about something I read recently (and you’ll see in the magazine in September) about how adults need to really work their bodies to their maximum RPMs every day for at least a minute or so. It’s good for our vitality (if we don’t keel over from a heart attack in the process).

It does feel pretty good, I have to admit: lungs burning, lactic acid conquering the muscles in your legs, heart thumping through the wall of your chest, etc.

Not the same as pedaling through the park.

Anyway, tonight it’s the treadmill, more ab work (really — I just love that stuff!), some lifting, and a leisurely ride home on my Schwinn.